


we are not what you think we are

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, slime puppy in formal wear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23251879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: It’s a surprise to everyone when one of Roman’s movies gets Oscar buzz.It's probably even more of a surprise when he takes Gerri as his date.
Relationships: Gerri Kellman/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Comments: 28
Kudos: 138





	we are not what you think we are

**Author's Note:**

> we stan the social distancing icons that are roman and gerri! let's imagine a happier time when an awards show is what everyone talked about on twitter!

It’s a surprise to everyone when one of Roman’s movies gets Oscar buzz. 

A friend of a friend of a friend wrote a weird quirky romcom, and somehow it ended up in Roman’s hands. (He knows how, he’s got the money, people shove things at him all the time). And then he pushed it at Gerri, asked her to read it. After a long day with too many meetings, the non-stop vibrating of her phone and little fires popping up everywhere, he tossed it in her lap and said “Read this.” Not his best timing, but there’s no good timing, with them.

She just looked at him over her glasses, that steely stare where she tries to decide if he’s serious or not - where she decides whether to take him seriously or not. And then she flipped the title page back and started reading. Five pages in, she laughed. Not a laugh so much as a chuckle, but it was enough to make him take out his phone, text his friend to tell their friend to tell the other friend that he’d fund it, pay for the whole fucking thing. 

When he looked back at Gerri, glasses perched on her nose, feet tucked under her, hair pushed behind her ear, it all felt so goddamn domestic. 

So the movie got made and he got a producer credit and then every critic on the face of the planet fell over themselves complimenting the thing. Rotten Tomatoes didn’t even fuck him over. 

When nominations came out, every pseudo-feminist website wrote a thinkpiece about a romantic comedy getting a nod for Best Movie and how it’s a sign of female empowerment or whatever. He never read past the headline of those articles. Jezebel did write a callout post, something about having a playboy billionaire funding the project didn’t a feminist movie make, but he ignored that too.

“Do you like the movie?” he asked Gerri, a week after he gave her a screener. She looked at him over her glasses, that one eyebrow point straight up to the fucking sky.

“Why does it matter?” Her voice always so fucking cool and distant and he doesn’t know how to tell her that she’s the only opinion that matters because that’s so fucking weird to say out loud.

“Jesus, it doesn’t,” he blustered. “Just trying to make conversation like a normo. Never mind, back to robot mode. Beep boop deals and mergers.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked away so he didn’t have to see Gerri roll her eyes. He missed the fact that she smiled.

So then the thing got nominated and he got his official invitation and that big fat “and guest” written under his name. And he made the mistake of telling his family.

“Are you taking Tabitha to the Oscars?” Shiv asks, a smirk, because she knows that she’s been around less lately, just wants to make him say the words in front of Logan. 

“She’s got a thing,” he mumbles, because she probably does, and it’s as good a reason as anything he might make up. It’s not worth the effort to tell a decent lie.

“A _thing_?” Shiv is incredulous, on the verge of laughing. “So who are you going to take? Marcia? No, no wait - Gerri!” She does laugh at that, a throaty chuckle that makes Roman want to punch her because that’s _exactly_ who he’d like to bring. 

He wonders if she’d get him off on the limo over to the theater. They’ve only had, like, four phone calls that ended with him jerking off, but he’s starting to think she might like it too.

“I _am_ going to bring Gerri,” he spits out. “She holds her liquor better than you anyway.” He bats at her, hand making contact with her shoulder and her reaction is swift, her palm hitting at his neck. They never really grew out of the wrestling phase. 

“Where are you bringing Gerri?” Connor asks, wandering into the room, some ridiculously tiny espresso cup in his hand, like he doesn’t know just how pompous he looks. “Old folks home? Friday night fish fry? Early bird discount?”

“Eat my dick. Like Willa doesn’t take you out for brunch specials once a week.” He pulls a face at Connor, wishes he had something to throw at him. “Now that I’m an Oscar nominated producer, I’m too busy for this shit.” He throws up his middle finger in Shiv’s general direction and makes it to the elevator without anyone saying anything else. 

When the door closes, he calls Gerri. Always his first call. 

“What is it?” Almost a sweet greeting, from her. 

“Uh. That movie thing? Remember? I threw a fuckton of money at some guy and then he made a whole thing and anyway it got nominated for a fucking Oscar today.” He feels more rambly when he’s trying to impress her, tripping over his words for the right ones to say. 

“Well, congratulations, Roman. I’m glad people enjoy it as much as the giant chicken.” She sounds distracted and he wonders what she’s doing. 

“It’s a turkey. But whatever. Anyway, that means I get to do that whole shitshow awards ceremony thing. My invitation came today. Uh.” It feels like he’s asking her on a date. Which. Maybe he is. It makes his skin crawl and the elevator isn’t even on the ground floor yet. “The chances are good that I’ll, like, trip over myself and fuck Giuliana Rancic on the red carpet if there’s not someone there to keep me in line.” 

“You want to fuck Giuliana Rancic?” At least she sounds vaguely interested in what he’s saying now. 

“No. Gross. I’m just saying, like, let off the leash, who knows what I’ll do. Like maybe. Maybe you could come too.” He wants to take the elevator all the way back up just so he can jump off the building. Instead the doors open and he doesn’t even look at the doorman, so sure his face is red. 

“You want me to come to the Oscars with you?” She’s wry and dry and caustic and he so badly wants her to come with him. 

“No. Yes. Maybe. Do you want to? Stop me from breaking laws or, like. Spewing state secrets when they ask me questions.” He desperately wants to see her face, so hard to gauge her mood when he can only hear her voice. He can picture the twist of her lips, just hopes it’s a smile and not a frown. 

“That does sound like something you’d do,” she says, and he thinks maybe, just maybe, she’s smiling. Standing in her office or sitting on that giant couch in her living room. Maybe she’s got a glass of wine in her hand. It’s after twelve on a Saturday, so why the fuck not. 

“So you’ll come? Keep little old Roman in line? Stop the fuck-up from fucking up?” He doesn’t know how to say what else he hopes she’ll do, thinks she probably has some idea, at the back of her mind. Or maybe at the forefront. 

“Send me the details.” She ends the call, and he wonders how long he has to wait before calling her back, wonders if she’d get him off if he bugged her enough. He still replays the way she scoffed, the way “chop chop” filtered through the phone line, and his dick starts to go hard at the memory. 

-

A month seems endless, between the nominations and the ceremony itself. Gerri doesn’t even bring it up, so he doesn’t either. It only comes up when Shiv mentions it as a sly dig, still laughing at the thought of her godmother being her brother’s date. 

“Get used to it. We’re madly in love. We had phone sex last night and I splooshed all over the kitchen. You should hear the filth she comes up with. Wamsgans couldn’t match it, even with a porno going in front of his face.” Shiv shifts, her face going blank, and he wonders how long it’s been since she had sex with her husband. 

He doesn’t stop to think about how much is true and how much is a lie in what he just said, just hears the echo of Gerri calling him a “smarmy fuckmonkey” and scrolls through his phone.

They fly out to Los Angeles together, but Gerri works for the entire plane ride, doesn’t relax even for a minute. He sees the bag holding her dress hanging at one end of the plane, wonders what color it is. She doesn’t seem to mind that he sits next to her, doesn’t even mind his jittery legs and twiddling fingers, only rests her hand against his thigh twice throughout the flight to still his movements, leaves her fingers there for longer than is entirely necessary and Roman just thinks about how nice it is.

They have separate hotel rooms, though he tried to tell her it’s not necessary, not important. Tried to pretend that he doesn’t think about what it actually might be like to lay in the same bed as her, to watch her hair move as she breathes. 

“We’re putting this on the company card, Roman. So we’re getting separate rooms.” Always perfunctory, always thinking everything through, down to the last detail. It strikes him that she didn’t exactly say she didn’t want to share a room. Just that they couldn’t. The thought takes over his brain for several hours. 

It’s so much earlier in California than it is when they watch it back in New York. The sun is bright and hot and he doesn’t really want to stand out on a red carpet in the heat in his tuxedo and his bowtie already feels too tight and constricting, but it’s what’s happening, it’s what he’s doing, he’s committed now. Too late to turn back - how at least half of his decisions are made. 

Gerri’s door is propped open when he walks down the hall, at his knock, she calls for him to come in. The bathroom door is closed, and he pictures her peering at herself in the mirror. Maybe putting on mascara? Blush? He doesn’t know what she does to her face every day. Less than Tabitha but more than the girl that delivers sandwiches around the office. He likes when Gerri wears lipstick.

The bathroom door opens, and her dress is dark and blue and he can see the cleavage that she so often hides - a criminal offense to his mind. She’s putting an earring in, both hands busy and her eyes are on the mirror, not on him, so he has a chance to stare. 

She’s taller, he thinks, even than when she shows up at work in her heels. And he can see her reflection from where he’s standing, her eyes are shadowed and darker and her lips are red and she’s got sparkling silver dangling from her ears. And he can see her waist and her hips and her breasts and all he can do is say “Fuck.” 

At that, Gerri turns to look at him, a hand touching her hair a little self-consciously. She’s got it up and it’s curled and her neck is bare and god, he just wants to reach out to touch the skin there. “Presentable enough?” she asks, the steel coming back into her voice, any trace of doubt gone, and she’s the confident Gerri he sees every day. 

“Jesus, Gerri. Who knew this was fucking hiding behind those skirt suits? You always look like such a fucking square, like a boring, like, sofa.” He runs a hand through his hair. He’s seen her dressed up before. Shiv’s wedding and the benefit gala and a hundred other little events but this is. This is different. Hotter. A better dress, flashier jewelry. And blue eyes that are staring at him like she can’t decide whether to be offended or to take the compliment. 

“Nice to see water and soap still work on you, too.” Her tone is clipped, but her mouth is smiling. She reaches out to fix his collar, her hand warm against his neck as she turns the fabric down. Her nails flick against his skin and he feels goosebumps erupt on his arm. 

She moves ahead of him into the hallway and her ass looks better than he’s ever seen it. She must be wearing higher heels. And fuck, there’s a slit in the dress and he catches a glimpse of thigh. He fists his hands next to his sides and follows her out the door, closing it gently behind him. 

There’s a limo waiting for them. And three other limos lined up behind theirs. Traffic already looks like a nightmare and they only have, like, two miles to go. She looks surprised when he opens the car door for her and he can’t be mad. No one’s ever called him a gentleman before. 

It takes too long to go a short distance, and his leg is jumping up and down. Her hand rests on his knee, nails digging in through his trousers. They’re clear and rounded, like she’s just had them done, and the thought that she might’ve done it for him? He can feel the twitch in his pants. 

“Honestly, Rome?” her voice is quiet, warm, and heat rushes through him. “No one really gives a fuck if you’re there tonight.” Her hand squeezes his leg again, a quick pulse, and he grips the door handle. “You’re the check, they’re the talent. Who’s going to be asking for Roman Roy when Brad Pitt’s standing there?” She leans closer, her lips near his ear, a curl falling and hitting his cheek. He wants to touch it, wants to pull it taut and see it spring back.

“Someone might,” he manages, his voice a little strangled, glad the partition is up between them and the driver. “I’m a dapper fucking gentleman and some tabloid reporter would be happy to take me home.” It’s bullshit and she knows it. He feels, rather than hears, her soft snort against his cheek. 

“You’re a billionaire playboy with greasy hair and a clip-on bow tie,” she says, and moves away, the limo slowing, pulling up to the curb. The driver opens the door and she follows him out. Cameras flash and he wonders if anyone will see pictures of them tomorrow. 

Gerri leans into him, mouth close to his ear again, and it could easily be mistaken for a kiss to his cheek. Instead she says, “I’m going to bypass the carpet. Don’t swear too much, this is live television.” She gives his hand a squeeze, her palms dry, her gaze sure. 

He doesn’t even know what all he says to the few interviewers that pull him in. Gerri’s right; no one really cares if he’s here. He does get pulled into a group photo with the cast and directors, enough people that he knows he won’t stand out. The director has on a brocade suit jacket, all eyes on her.

He sees Giuliana Rancic, microphone gripped in her hand, her laugh carrying, and just smiles to himself as he makes his way inside.

Gerri’s at the bar and he touches her back as he slides up next to her. He gets a momentary glimpse of her profile, stark and lovely, her neck so elegant and pale in the dim lighting, and then she turns to look at him, her gaze soft. “Will you be getting any fines from the FCC?” she asks, hands him her glass obligingly, watches him take a sip.

“Not tonight. Probably. I don’t think so.” He drains the drink, raises a finger to the bartender to get another glass. The idea of sharing whiskey with her all night makes him feel something he doesn’t really want to think about. It makes his skin itchy. “Am I allowed to say that this whole cumshow is fucking ridiculous and awards are basically just a meaningless shit funnel?” Her eyes widen only a little.

“Maybe they gave you the five second delay,” she says, taking the glass back. She’s just always so fucking _cool_ about everything, he’s never seen anything phase her, not really.

-

The awards show is boring as shit, and he’s realizing that he hasn’t seen most of the movies that are nominated for things. And who the fuck even cares about sound editing? Some guy in glasses wins and he looks the same as the guy who won best cinematography and Roman doesn’t think he could tell them apart, not for the amount of money he paid to finance the film.

It’s during a series of really idiotic jokes from Seth Macfarlane about how he’s the “un-host” and no one should call him a host and he’s never hosting again, and Roman has never been one to give out pity laughs, that he notices Gerri texting. Her phone is dim, but her thumbs are moving. 

He wants to bump her, nudge her, but know she’s just going to shush him. They were told rules of etiquette before they even sat down, and to save chitchat for commercial breaks. He stretches one leg into the aisle, flicks his wrist to look at his watch, feels like he’s been in this chair for ages. It’s ridiculous that it’s only been thirty minutes.

He reaches into his pocket and grabs his own phone, slides his thumb to Gerri’s name.

_Business or pleasure?_

**What do you think?**

**__** _I think you don’t know how to have fun._

**Who says I’m not having fun?**

Roman sees the quirk of her lips, the way her eyes dart towards him, under the cover of her lowered lids, eyelashes fluttering.

**Should’ve known you couldn’t keep yourself focused for the whole show.**

**__** _I lasted longer than you!_

It’s instinct to defend himself, to deflect it back at her. Her smile widens, looking down at her phone with some kind of fucking fondness that makes his heart twist.

**You’ve never lasted longer than me.**

**__** _I’m a fucking energizer bunny. A Lance Armstrong of fucking._

**You only have one testicle?**

He bites back a sarcastic laugh, puts his phone down to applaud along with everyone else about something. Someone new walks up on stage, pulls out a speech from a jacket pocket and Roman picks his phone back up.

**Okay, Lance. Show me you can keep up.**

Her hand goes to his thigh, so close to his crotch, and he feels his whole body tense, but he doesn’t want her to move her fingers, not for anything. She crosses her legs innocently, the slit falling open, her bare leg suddenly visible and he wishes he still had that glass of whiskey.

**Imagine if anyone knew the producer of America’s favorite romantic comedy was about to come in his rented tuxedo.**

**__** _I own this tuxedo._

He can feel his breath catch in his throat, though. Illicit and mean and that curved calf muscle in his line of sight.

**The dry cleaners won’t be surprised to find your trousers soiled then.**

Her hand moves, closer, at the tender part of his leg and he has to grip the armrest to keep himself from bucking against the seat.

**Imagine going up on stage with a tent in your pants. The whole world knowing that you’re just a fucking manboy with a boner for the company lawyer.**

He thinks she likes the fact that she can get him off as much as he does. She shifts in her seat a little, the fabric of her dress rustling a little and for the first time he wonders what she does on the other end of their phone calls.

**Thinking with your dick, living through your cock.**

Watching her type those words, watching her fingers move and knowing she’s typing it out for him, it’s almost too much. They didn’t get any rules for etiquette surrounding boners, and his knuckles go white against the red fabric of the chair.

He moves his foot to press against hers, imagines he can feel the skin of her ankle, and feels the strain against his pants. It’s a relief that it’s early enough in the night that he won’t have to go up on stage any time soon.

**Come on, Roman.**

He can hear the derision in her voice, even though it’s just words on his phone. Her hand is firm against him now, shifting, fingers strong and warm. He doesn’t stop himself from bucking now, pushing against her palm.

**Fulsome fuck.**

He doesn’t know the first word, because he never shoved a dictionary up his ass, but he knows how she pronounces those consonants, the word sounding in his brain, echoing around because all other thoughts are gone.

Roman turns towards her, touching her bare shoulder with his forehead, sweat against her dry skin, and she doesn’t even flinch. One of his hands grips hers, where it rests on his pants, and he tries to stop himself, tries to slow his breathing. He sees Gerri put her phone away, sliding it in her little purse tucked away on her other side.

It takes two more awards to calm down enough, and another commercial break to get a glass of whiskey that he brings back to their seats. He takes a sip, hands it to her and their fingers touch as she accepts the drink. He can’t stop staring as she swallows, the undulation of her throat mesmerizing.

By the time they get to the Best Picture category, he feels like he’s been in the theater for half a lifetime, wonders how much he’s aged in the time they’ve been there.

When the winner is announced, it takes him thirty seconds to actually process it, to realize it’s everyone around them that’s standing, to understand that he’s just won an Oscar. 

Gerri prods him up, stands too, clapping and smiling, and presses a kiss to his cheek. He wonders if her lipstick left an imprint. Her hand is warm against his back as she gently pushes him towards the stage, following the director and the actors. He’s sure the camera following him caught the gesture.

-

When they’re in the limo, heading back to the hotel instead of any afterparties, he feels like he’s vibrating. His Oscar lays on the middle of the seat between them, bright and shiny, his name freshly etched. He can’t believe it’s his, that it’s real.

“If they’d let me have the microphone, I would’ve said you were responsible for the whole thing.” He feels drunk even though he can’t even taste the whiskey he had hours ago. She looks at him, blue eyes so sharp when they’re focused.

“What do I have to do with it?” she asks, her finger tracing an outline around the statuette.

“You read the script. And you laughed. And then I texted the director.” He suddenly feels embarrassed, and sees her cheeks pink up too. He doesn’t know how to talk to her, not really. Not about what she means to him. 

“That’s very sweet, Rome,” she says, and the nickname is like a caress. He can’t stop himself from leaning across the seat, his lips hitting against hers awkwardly.

It’s strange to think this is the first time they’ve kissed, and it’s almost unbearable in how terrible it is. Her hand pats at his cheek and she pulls away, her face enigmatic. 

“Very sweet,” she says again, and turns her face towards the window.

He can taste her lipstick on his tongue.


End file.
